Orange Feathers
by FarrierofRohan
Summary: Faramir and Boromir have a younger sister named Miriel. Faramir and she were born a little over a year apart. Faramir's issues with his father are similar to what Miriel has to deal with, especially during the War of the Ring. After many attempts to impress her father, her priorities shift towards bravery and sacrifice when their family is suddenly struck with a devastating loss.
1. Chapter 1: Loathing Peacocks

**Chapter 1**

**Loathing Peacocks**

**_TA3002_**

Míriel squinted through her eyelids as maid Gwaeren softly opened the doors to her room. Thinking her lady was asleep, Gwaeren tiptoed to open the curtains to let in the raw, morning rays of sunshine. Through the slits of her eyes, she could tell by her actions that Gwaeren was in a bad mood. The way she hurriedly set out clothes, poured water in the basin, and forcefully completed every action with an aggravated huff, described exactly what kind of mood Gwaeren was in today. Just like the meaning of her name—windy—Gwaeren was a gentle breeze some mornings and blistering cold the next. Her maid had always been that way. It got exceedingly worse when her bedridden, elderly mother passed away a few moons ago. According to Boromir, her mother had been her only family. Her father died years ago from disease, and Gwaeren never married nor had any children. _It is sad_, Míriel thought, _how one woman could be lonely and content and angry all at the same time, at no one in particular except herself_. She always made it a habit to be particularly careful on the bad days to lessen the blow of Gwaeren's constant reminder of lonliness.

"M-m-m-my lady, it is time. You m-must wake, Miss. Remember, the Steward ordered that you be d-dressed and p-p-present for the marriage ceremony." Gwaeren stammered impatiently. On Gwaeren's bitterly cold days, she stuttered when she commanded her to get up. Míriel suspected that it was due to the fact that she couldn't stand ordering anyone around, let alone a lady, but knew that her ladyship wouldn't get out of bed if it didn't take some authoritative persuading.

Míriel flopped onto her back and groaned at the thought of the wedding. How could she have forgotten? She wasn't surprised that she had, though, for she tried to shove the nauseating event of Thalion's wedding to that wench from Ethring in the Ringlo Vale province. His marriage was not one that she liked, but obviously, she had no control over who he married. And to think that she had that kind of power was stupid and selfish. In the end, what could she have done different in the wench's stead? There was no way that the Steward would ever approve _their_ marriage if it ever came to happen. While Thalion was of high status because of his father's executive position in Gondor, a step under the Steward, her father wanted to save her betrothal for something more political, for a chip piece in his game of scheming and ruling of Gondor. He would use his own daughter as a chess piece on his board game of ultimate supreme and marry her off to a ruler from Haradrim if he thought it would gain him political access. Their courtship wasn't secret, but it also wasn't very pronounced. Any common person would see them together and think that they were just very good friends, but those around them most knew that there was something more. As their pairing continued, the topic of marriage began to come up in their conversations. They would walk through the barns together, and often, sit and talk on their special marble bench in the Rose Gardens of Ancient Kings underneath the elm tree. Míriel had wanted to avoid marriage discussions all together because of the Steward's decisions, but Thalion was always eager to start something new. Finally, their last time together was when he told her that she had to make a decision—marry him or never pursue their relationship again. Knowing that their marriage could never happen, she had to choose the other.

Disturbing her out of her trance, Gwaeren interrupted, "M-my lady, you have to get ready. Your father, the Steward of Gondor, is expecting your attendance. I have your gown here, my lady. Is there a certain p-p-preference you have for your hair for such an occasion?" Míriel knew from experience that Gwaeren's comments about hair style was not a question; it was in fact _My lady, I am doing your hair. I know what I'm doing, so shove off and don't tell me anything otherwise. _Again, Míriel knew to be careful on the cold days, on the days when Gwaeren was thinking about her dead mother and family.

With a sigh and a heave, she flipped herself over and slowly crawled out of bed and lumbered to the wash basin.

Míriel, her brother Faramir, and their father arrived at the ceremonial hall early. It was a simple walk from the Hall of Kings, so they decided to take a stroll. The men were dressed in normal ceremonious clothing, but her dress' train dragged annoyingly and her throat felt constricted as the collar crept up and desperately tried to choke her. Faramir couldn't help himself but make fun of the way it looked. It was not her first choice of dress, but the way that the schedule rotation of ceremony dresses worked was entirely up to the Steward and what he wanted. Because she was a woman and a daughter of the Steward, her ceremony wardrobe choices were apparently not up to her, and instead, a higher power's responsibility. Maybe they feared that she would choose something—heaven forbid—comfortable, simple, and normal.

When they arrived at the hall, Míriel casually looked around. The hall was horribly decorated. It was her opinion, and she kept it all to herself, but she truly believed that the bright blue and green peacock feathers were too merry and bold and gay for such an occasion that, in the end, was bound to be unloving and all for naught. She glanced around sharply, narrowed her eyes angrily, and picked out miniscule details accompanying the obnoxious feathers—the light blue-patterned, expensive cloth hung loosely around each pillar (it was too off color from the royal blue of the peacocks, didn't match the scheme of the hall, and was dreadfully draped); the altar was too cluttered with blue flowers, gold candles, greenery, and unorganized to be considered pretty or magnificent (she would have done it much differently, but was this her wedding? No. . .); and the benches for guests to observe were off-centered from where the altar was placed (they were just uneven enough to annoy a perfectionists' eye, such as Míriel's, but to the average eye, it probably looked adequate). Oh, how she would have done a better job had it been her wedding. Oh, she could have honored their houses so much better if she had been the bride and she wou—

"Excuse me, Miss? Could I move past you, please? Thank you." A hustling, balding gentleman commanded hurriedly. Míriel turned, ready to show her distaste for being addressed in such a disrespectful way, when she looked at the man; disheveled, sweat beaded down his red, chubby face making him look terribly ill and fat. He quickly tried to take a few of the peacocks out of the decorations, to minimize the insufferable color, and adjust some of the pillars' blue drapery, and there was no doubt that he was the wedding planner. He looked in such distress; it stopped her from belittling him with her powerful rank and House. She never pulled the "My Father is the Steward" card often, but she felt fowl this morning and she was ready to take her rage out on any instigating party. And yet, she felt bad for the man—the terribly decorated room was probably not his fault, but the bride and Thalion's. From his complexion and anxiety, this was obviously not the way the wedding planner man had organized it originally.

She knew the Wench—_no, the "Bride"—_from childhood, when the Steward used to send for all the representatives from the Provinces to gather in lengthy assemblies during the late summer. If the assembly was to be lengthy with negotiations and trading schedules, then the representatives might bring a family member or two. The Bride's father, Ringlo-Vale's highest leader, would bring her along and then Míriel was forced to play with her and treat her as an equal; the Bride was a petty, pretty girl who couldn't weild a sword or play hide and seek. In fact, every time they would play, the Wench—_B-R-I-D-E—_would call it "find and hide;" this annoyed Míriel in the highest fashion. But the Steward's assemblies ceased when Míriel was about nine years old and the Wench—_Bride!—you know what, I don't give a damn—_quit travelling to the White City. In fact, today might be the first time the Wench has been to Minas Tirith in over a decade. Honestly, she didn't really even remember the Wench's name or that she still existed in Gondor until a couple of months ago when Thalion broke off all relationships with Míriel and moved on to the Wench instead.

No, she wasn't bitter. She wasn't livid. She was angry. She was the one who didn't want to marry, anyway. So therefore, why should she be mad about Thalion finding a bride? Maybe the Wench makes him happier than she ever could. But who is she kidding? She was mad, livid, and bitter; so bitter that she would have to control herself not to stand up during the ceremony and bolt out of the hall, causing a scene. She didn't want to be here, but for Thalion's sake. She would sit and stay and loathe the world with her fuming obedience.


	2. Chapter 2: Luckless Prion

She needed to get away from her father, the weddings, Thalion, the Wench, and politics. The diplomacy that went along with royal gatherings was draining-she had to portray sweetness and beauty in the presence of hundreds. Being fake around her father was brutal. The Steward was drunk and obnoxious during these gatherings and made her feel uncomfortable as his control and composure slipped away. Over the course of those evenings, he would make jabs at her inability to find a husband or wear a dress pretty enough.

Through the gaps between drunks and dancers, she could see the evening's sunshine pouring through the hall windows. She wanted some fresh air; the foul stench of sweat, alcohol, and hair oils gave her a headache.

She squeezed through the dancing crowds, passed the peacock tables, and slipped through the giant double doors. Ahh! She inhaled. I can breathe.

Míriel turned around to observe the chaos, gowns, and beer. She was done; she wasn't going back. She turned on her heel and ran back to her chambers, running past servants and maids, slamming doors as she went. She opened to door to her room, frantically ripped off her gown and threw it on the floor. She walked naked to her armoire and put on her comfortable, manly, old riding breeches and a rich burgundy knitted sweater. She strapped a brown leather belt around her waist to hold her pants up. She dug around her wardrobe and found her brown handmade stable boots that never hurt her feet, unlike her gown slippers that forced her toes to cramp and ache. This wasn't typical royalty wear, nor female for that matter. Actually, that was the only reason why she was allowed to wear those clothes-because she was the Steward's daughter and the Captain's youngest sister.

She sighed, looked at her reflection in the mirror and sagged on her bed. The door slammed open. Gwaeren stormed in angrily.  
"What do you think you're doing, my lady!? What is this? Why aren't you at the celebration where you rightly should be? Oh, what would the Steward think of this? You have to go back, my lady, right now!" She paused to catch her breath. She glanced at the floor and the crumbled royalty gown laying on it. She gasped and quickly scooped it up off the floor, "Look at this! This will take me hours to make this beautiful again. Gah! You have no respect for luxurious things."

Míriel had no interest in taking this criticism. She sighed angrily and glared at her maid-or boss or mother. It was obviously a bad day for Gwaeren, as she had suspected earlier that morning. When the angry maid's rant subsided, she stood up, walked towards the door and quietly said, "Are you finished? I did not come here to be lectured by the maids or servants. If you are finally done with your monologue, I think I'll leave now." She turned on her heel, walked down the hall, and made her way down the stairs to the heart of the city below.

She wanted to go down to the Ranger practice rings, but they were filled with recruits at this hour, learning how to swing their blades and become defense ready. Oh, how she loved the blade. Honestly, she hated any other type of combat-the sword was her favorite. She liked the art in sword fighting; the different styles and variations, techniques, and speeds. But the fields were taken and busy. She had to make a new plan. Archery.

She hated shooting a bow. It didn't fit her well; the draw felt awkward and made her feel exposed and vulnerable. The soft breathing and relaxing the hands as the arrow released from its nock by her three, tedious fingers was always followed by impatience.

What she hated most of all though, was how terrible she was at it. She could hit the target, but her accuracy wasn't anything like how the Stewards' offspring were supposed to shoot. Her father held her failures over her head when she was younger and yelled at her when she didn't improve and forced her into hours of lessons.

She nocked another arrow, recalling a memory of when she began to truly, absolutely hate archery.

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A little 8 year old girl, with light strawberry blonde hair pulled back by a string, stood with her bow in her grasp trying to hold it above the ground. She was tired, frustrated, and hot. Earlier, her father had made her go down to the target field with Boromir to work on her form. They had tried and tried to lift her elbow, make her relax, and work on her breathing, but to no avail. Boromir kept telling her that she was okay and that all she needed was to keep practicing.

Now, after shooting over five hundred arrows-some hitting the center of the target, some not by a mile-she wanted to go home

On their walk up to the Hall, Boromir carried her on his back. They laughed and joked about horses and riding. That was a topic neither of them could run out of conversation with.

Boromir's horse was a dappled grey gelding with a beautiful black mane and tail. His name was Buckbay. Boromir would spend the whole day in the stables cleaning out stalls, brushing out Buck's tail a couple of times, and reorganizing their hundreds of bridles and saddles. Sometimes, he would even bring Míriel along to help. They would go for rides together.

The Steward never allowed Míriel to have her own horse, so she would ride retired Ranger Mounts who were pent up and needing to go on an adventure.

As they neared the doors of the Hall, their laughter began to fade. Their smiles disappeared and Boromir gently let Míriel jump down. They opened the door together.

The Steward was sitting at his work desk, signing orders, and stamping their envelopes with hot, crisp, official seals. Without a glance towards his children, he asked, "Boromir, was she better?"

The boy hesitated and looked at his younger sister. She looked down at her feet, her knees shook with fear. He decided to help her. For the sake of his poor sister, he had to lie. "Yes, Father. Much better. She shot well."

"Good." He set his ink feather down, crossed his arms, and leaned back in his chair. He thought for a moment and then the corners of his mouth crinkled into a sly smile. "So she will beat the others her age in a tournament?"

Oh no! Míriel's stomach dropped. She would never be able to compete in a tournament, but she couldn't tell her father that. She glanced at Boromir.

He shifted his feet and his face contorted like he was thinking really hard. Finally, he said, "No, Father. She is not ready for a tournament. I'm sorry."

The Steward frowned. "Then, you need to double your efforts, Boromir. I will tell Dredoc to get a competition bow made. Leave now. I have work to do."

Three weeks later, she stood 25 feet from the target with people all around her. Her little hands shook as she tried to push stray hairs away from her eyes. She tried to hold back tears. She wasn't ready. She was going to embarrass her father, the Steward of Gondor. Her knees wobbled at the thought of what was going to happen to her when this was over.

Dredoc, the head archer, nodded to her and smiled, almost sadly. He was trying to give a look of encouragement, but to Míriel it looked like a grimace.

She walked over to the line in the dirt, trying to lift her bow high enough off the ground. She breathed. She prayed. She relaxed and looked at the target. Her eyes fixed on the center, she drew an arrow from her tiny quiver. "Breathe," she whispered. Her sweaty fingers fumbled with the end of the arrow as she nocked it. Finally, she drew back. Set. Breathed. Relaxed. And let the arrow fly.

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"Why are you so angry, Fae?" A calm voice asked from behind her, shattering her memory. Faramir walked towards her, carefully stepping around the rocky, moss-covered boulders.  
"I'm not upset. And quit calling me Fae. I'm not a flake or an idiot. I have a real name. " She hated that nickname. Faramir came up with it when she was 5 years old. He came back from his studies with his teachers one day and said he learned a new word, one that one could call a flaky person. 'Sister, I'm going to call you Fae.' She didn't know what it meant until she was 7 and went to her studies and asked a teacher. The day she found out, she came home and pummeled him to the ground.

She let loose another arrow, which barely made it on the target board.  
"I beg to differ. You're angry. You're very good at many things, sister, but you are a dreadful liar." He paused as he watched another arrow soar past its intended target and sink into the weeds. "And quite a terrible shot."  
"Be silent if you have nothing else to say, brother! I'm busy." She snapped, furiously nocking another arrow. It lobbed out of the air and onto the ground a few paces in front of them. She yelled in frustration. She threw her cheap training bow to the ground.  
"Why can't I shoot a blasted bow, Faramir? Why is it that I am the only one in the entire family who can't hit an elephant if it was a damn pace away?" She gasped for air as her yelling subsided and her posture sagged.

He snickered at the sight of her outburst, "Really? That's the least of your problems, Fae." Míriel glared. He chuckled, "Honestly dear, do you think that being furious and pouting about Thalion is going to mend anything? That lad moved on and found another bride who was actually stunning, ladylike, and feminine."

"Why are you so rude? Do I look like I need someone to laugh? Do I seem to be in a jesting mood?" She spat. She picked up her bow, packed it in a cloth sheet, put her arrows in a bundle, and sighed. "You know what, Faramir?"  
"What?"  
"You're an ass."  
She stormed off to the stables.


End file.
